Storm
by Got Tea
Summary: On a long, hot summer night there's more than one storm surrounding Boyd and Grace.


**Happy Birthday (a bit late) missDuncan! :) xx And thank you Joodiff for the beta. :) xx**

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 **Storm**

 **…**

It's unbearably humid. One of those disgustingly hot and uncomfortable British summer nights where no one really sleeps and tempers have a tendency to fray faster than a cat fleeing a boisterous canine. That those tempers haven't – in this particular cottage – erupted yet, is either something of a minor miracle, or, perhaps, a sign that after years of bickering, scrapping and outright fighting, the bond between the two occupants has settled into something so deep, so close that petty squabbles are now irrelevant, insignificant.

The gloomy darkness of the elegant, comfortable room, brightened only by moonlight and half-a-dozen tall, slender white candles, flickers with the fast burn of brilliant white lightning. Standing at the wide, open window, leaning out as far as she can to breathe in the scent of the rain that is lashing down with abandon, Grace's profile is illuminated – edged, for just a second or two, in an eerie, flattering silhouette. From his position sprawled out atop the wide, deep luxury of the impossibly big bed, blankets kicked aside and skin bare to any hint of a breeze that might dare find its way into the room and soothe the burning heat, Boyd watches her, entranced.

"Come back to bed," he urges, gripped with the sudden desire to explore and re-explore the soft skin of her collarbone, to run a line of tiny kisses along the nape of her neck and make her sigh and melt against him.

She turns slightly, eyes sliding slowly from the very tips of his toes all the way up to his face, lingering here and there, an evocative, suggestive smile building on her lips, across her entire face as she stares at him, their gazes locked in silent communication.

Thunder snarls nearby, angry clouds bashing their heads together as the storm moves closer and the rain lashes down harder.

"Five more minutes," she murmurs, already turning away again. "I love a good storm."

Lightening blazes again, filling the room with that strange, electric flare of light – it creeps and wraps around her, a tantalising shadow just beyond his reach, offering him an exquisite black and white image of her side profile. Forehead, eyes and nose; those lips he wants to claim with his own. Further down there's her throat and shoulders, the swell of her breast beneath the loose fabric draped around her, the hem of which falls to mid-thigh, disguising the rest of her torso and hips, but emphasising instead the remainder of her legs. It's an arresting sight, one that does nothing to calm the growling edge of tension in him that the long and uncomfortable night is causing. Instead it only offers visions and images that chase and tumble through his mind. He wants to run his hands up those thighs, to feel the erotic sensation of them wrapped around him as he plunges into her.

The imagery and the sight of her, the dry scent of hot, metallic summer rain, and the oppressive heat of the night pressing in on him, combine together to form a rich net of desire that ensnares his mind, focusing his thoughts in a single, heated direction.

The way her body, her stillness as she rests her hands on the window ledge and watches intently out over the rolling hills of the world outside, is highlighted by the candles and the brilliant white streaks of mother nature's fury has all his attention and is holding it, gripping it. It makes him roll from his position of relative, lazy comfort and sit up. His feet land on the thick pile of a large shag rug that spreads out over polished, elegant floorboards and Boyd stands, silently padding up behind her. No longer content to watch, he wants, needs, to touch, to hold.

There's the barest hint of a cool breeze flowing into the room and, as he stops and lets his hands come to rest quite naturally on her waist, he feels the tiny scrap of relief it offers from the relentlessly sticky humidity of the night. It cools his skin, flows easily into his lungs, but it does nothing to calm the growing desire burning within him.

There's no one outside in the dark, remote landscape to spot his nakedness, but he doesn't care anyway. Pressing his face gently to her hair he breathes in the tangled mix of her shampoo, her natural aroma and the musky hint of sex, of _them_ , still clinging to her skin. It's exquisite, her scent, and it goes straight to his head, and his groin.

"Come back to bed," he repeats, voice a deep, husky purr.

Her laughter is soft and warm, and it sends shivers down his spine. He has no idea what she's thinking. "So impatient, Peter…"

She's a mystery and a tease, and God help him, he adores her.

"I love you," he whispers, straight into her ear.

It's been so effortlessly easy to adapt to having her in his life like this, and to learn to tell her exactly that. And God, does it feel good to see the way she looks at him, the way she reacts to him, when he does.

Through the thin cotton of the dark grey shirt he was wearing just hours ago and that she simply plucked from the floor and slipped her arms into minutes ago when she strayed from the bed, Boyd can feel an altogether different type of heat from the oppressive humidity lurking in the air. The raw heat of her body beneath a tantalising smoothness that entices him to slide his fingers down, skin rasping softly against the material until his hand skims past the hem and slips instead over warm, living flesh. He moves slowly, exploring and hunting, fingers drifting over her hip, his thumb brushing lightly across her stomach while his other hand, far from idle, deftly searches for the single button she has bothered to fasten. She takes a tiny step back, edging closer to him and her movement causes the fabric to shift, falling slightly and exposing her bare shoulder beneath it.

It's far too tempting to resist and, as he curls one strong arm securely around her, tugging her back from the window and closing any remaining hint of distance between them until she's pressed more snugly to him, body firmly flush with his, he lowers his head and gently nuzzles her skin. Grace leans her head back, freely soliciting the brush of his lips against her neck as his other hand keeps moving, questing...

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 **The above is a slightly edited beginning to a longer fic which can be found on AO3. For those who choose to look for the other version, happy reading...**


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